


Smoke and Noise

by madame_faust



Series: Smoke and Noise [3]
Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Class Differences, F/M, Historical References, M/M, Not Beta Read, Not Own Voices
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:48:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25737535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madame_faust/pseuds/madame_faust
Summary: A night at the circus stirs up unfulfilled longing in Christine and Raoul when a masked magician takes the stage.
Relationships: Christine Daaé & Erik | Phantom of the Opera, Erik | Phantom of the Opera/The Persian, Raoul de Chagny & The Persian, Raoul de Chagny/Christine Daaé
Series: Smoke and Noise [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1931311
Comments: 31
Kudos: 38





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be a LOT more fun than it turned out to be. Still, it's based on a real place - the Cirque d'Hiver in Paris, a very cool, still operational circus!

There was a new artiste at the Winter Circus and Christine couldn't have been more excited. 

Well...that was a bit of an overstatement. There was also a traveling carnival which made its home in Île de la Cité - some of the ballet rats and their mothers organized a party to attend, eager to buy cheap paste jewels and second-hand silk ribbons from the peddlers who set up their carts around the festivities and to watch tame bears perform tricks and see men breathe fire under the moonlight. The sweating, lively, decidedly low-brow thrill of it beckoned; the Winter Circus, with its bas-relief of Amazons had a decidedly classical bourgeois air about it. Even so, it was a compromise.

Raoul came to her door in a dinner jacket and white tie, black silk topper sitting elegantly atop his gleaming blonde hair. In one hand, he carried his walking stick and he offered his empty arm to her to walk her into the hired cab - no doubt Philippe had taken the family carriage to one of his usual haunts, he liked to start the evening at one of the city's fine restaurants and end his evenings in places entirely less reputable. At least if the society columns were to be believed.

Although Raoul had not his brother's appetite for vice, he still was perfectly comfortable having a private dining room reserved for the two of them, with courses of more food than either of them could comfortably eat. He looked dapper as always in his tailcoats and gleaming shoes. Once they were settled and the wine and conversation flowed, Christine felt more at her ease, but the inevitable walk to their dining room, under the gleam of a dozen chandeliers was less comfortable; she was conscious of her twice-turned gowns with their conspicuous darts, and inexpertly re-cut waists. Mamma was kind enough to lend her pearls which she said were always elegant, but they glittered decidedly less than the diamonds and gemstones of the other ladies who stared with appraising eyes at young de Chagny's chorus girl. 

Raoul did not mind - Raoul did not _notice_ , for he was all solicitous attention and easy smiles. But Christine did. Hence their compromise. 

The carnival she blushed to think of mentioning - imagine, Raoul in a place like that! But the Winter Circus, well, that was a different matter. It had been named for an emperor, once. That and its classical pretensions turned the evening from one of slumming to one of mutual enjoyment. She hoped.

Indeed, it seemed she did not hope in vain, for Raoul produced an advertisement he had clipped from a newspaper from his jacket pocket. "What do you think, eh? All the way from Persia!"

There, in bold print _**ENKIDU THE MAGNIFICENT** \- FROM THE MYSTERIOUS EAST HE CONJURES FORTH MARVELS TO SHOCK AND DELIGHT!_

There were snakes and flame illustrated around a central figure - a black-robed creature, vaguely man-shaped, but with no discernable face. Just narrow white spots where the eyes ought to be.

"I confess, I worried my poor heart mightn't be able to bear the shock," Raoul said, handing the advertisment to Christine to examine more closely. "You might have to revive me if I faint."

She met his eyes and smiled; though the two of them gobbled up her father's old legends and tales like they were sweets, she was always the one who was able to sleep peacefully after their telling. Raoul's aunt spoke to her father once or twice about the boy tossing and turning with nightmares. Still, when the night was gone and the sun high and hot he would cajole and beg for another, more terrifying than the last, if Monsieur Daae had the time and inclination to tell it to him.

"I've forgotten my smelling salts," Christine replied primly, squinting in the dim of the carriage to make out the rats, birds, and other animals pouring forth from the flames. "I might have to slap you."

Raoul laughed heartily and draped his arm about her shoulders, as casually and naturally as you like. She pressed close to his side and he inclined his neck to kiss the crown of her head. "I trust your good judgement."

Christine stopped squinting; attempting to read while the carriage lurched down the street made her stomach flip. Instead she closed her eyes, folding the newspaper into a small square and depositing it in her reticule. In the dark, in private, they could be themselves. Speak as they might - teasingly, with the familiarity of two who had known one another from childhood...and the more intimate familiarity that went beyond innocent childhood friendship. In their private dining rooms and hired coaches, they could shake off the affectionate, innocent propriety they maintained in Mamma Valerius's drawing room. Or the cool, too-dignified cordiality of the Opera in the vain hopes of stoppering gossiping tongues who knew exactly what a man like him was doing with a girl like her. 

Best to go somewhere no one knew them and they knew no one. The Circus. The compromise.

Indeed, it seemed Christine's plans had worked. Raoul was greeted only as 'monsieur,' by the cloak-check girl, Christine mistakenly called 'madame' - a presumption neither of them corrected. Indeed, Raoul, tucked her gloved (and ringless) hand into the corner of his elbow and kissed her cheek. Quite boldly near her mouth. Christine did not blush but smiled as they took their place among the thousand other spectators who pressed in about the center ring.

There was no trace of winter in the air - the crush of bodies made the air hot which only exacerbated the stink of the horses as they were led around the ring, trick riders in garish costumes standing on their backs. Sometimes two at a time! One woman standing upon the shoulders of a man, the horse galloping past at a speed which Christine would not have chanced were the horse properly saddled and she riding astride. 

Then another horse entered and the two seemed to be in a race their riders attempting ever more daring tricks. Christine's hand went to her throat and her eyes squeezed shut when she thought there might be a collision - but a whoop of approval from Raoul's throat and the rapid applause from his hands beside her told her all was well. 

"And here I was worried about my nerves," he joked and she playfully shoved his arm. 

"I'm well satisfied with the company of ghosts and goblins," she retorted. "But they might have been _really_ hurt!"

Raoul's eyes were soft as the smile upon his lips. He lifted her hand and kissed the back tenderly. "I love you so," he sighed. 

There was a great cry from the crowd; for an instant Christine let her wildest fantasies imagine that this approval was in response to Raoul's declaration. But no, it was time for the trapeze artists and other aerialists to take their place. 

Monsieur Loyal - the master of ceremonies - announced the name of the troupe, but he was drowned out by a decidedly feminine-sounding wolf whistle from the crowd. Even he could not stop himself laughing. 

"Now, now, ladies!" he chided the crowd. "We've a packed house tonight. No need to auction off the fellows to pay for our salt and meat...come back mid-week, though, and make us an offer!"

There was an appreciative roar of laughter and a smattering of applause, in addition to a few more whistles (some of the older and graver looking members of the crowd got up from their seats, muttering about decorum). Christine and Raoul had to shift in their chairs to let a particularly disgruntled old maiden past, who was dragging a disappointed-looking young girl by the wrist. The girl had spirit though; she kept craning her neck to look back at the aerialists. 

They certainly were something! Compact bodies, well-displayed as they went flying through the air; it was not only the danger that might make a young lady's heart race. Even Raoul stared in slack-jawed amazement. This time it was he who covered his eyes when one of the aerialists missed his mark and sent his partner tumbling to the ground. There was a great collective gasp, then the sound of flesh hitting the floor.

The young man rolled upon the floor and rose up, arms over his head, a smile on his face. It was too close to tell whether or not that had been intended, but he seemed no worse for wear. The crowd cheered his recovery and none more loudly than Raoul. 

"He might have been hurt," he explained off of Christine's knowing smile. 

She rose slightly in her seat to kiss his cheek. "I love you."

There was no accompanying applause or cheer when she spoke. Instead the crowd hushed as Monsieur Loyal took to the center of the ring and the lights dimmed down to almost nothing. 

"Here he is!" he spoke into the gloom. "The man - or creature! - you have been waiting for. It was said that in ancient Mesopotamia the ground cracked and up from the desert sands there came a great black serpent made of smoke. From the belly of the creature it crawled, bringing with it dark magic and secrets of the underworld. Behold! Enkidu the Magnificent!"

There was a great burst of light, a shower of sparks, an accompanying darkness - Monsieur Loyal was gone! But then the lights were back, glaring hot and in the midst of the arena stood a figure in robes as black as night, with no face, just as the advertisement had him. Only two glowing yellow dots where the eyes might have been.

There was some scattered applause, but the crowd seemed uneasy. The figure was extraordinary - he was so tall! Taller than any man Christine had seen. But he had hands as any man did, long white hands as thin and pale as bone. 

And what wonders those hands worked! For half an hour it seemed the room held its breath in stunned silence. Birds were loosed upon the room, only to reveal themselves to be no more than reams of white ribbon set in flight. Serpents slithered forth into the crowd, setting women to screaming and men to swearing - then were withdrawn, their cold reptile bodies, which those in the first ring of the circle would _swear_ they felt slithering around their ankles, pouring out from the magician's hands limply. Silk and wire.

Christine had the distinct sense that Enkidu the Magnificent was laughing at all of them. He had a great, big booming voice which filled the arena - but would suddenly flit away, to sound from the ceiling, the doors, occasionally beside members of the audience, offering teasing anecdotes about their dress or their companions. 

But he saved his greatest conjuring trick for last. At first it seemed entirely morbid. A miniature crypt was placed upon the stage and from its depths, shrouded in white smoke, there came a woman, clad in white like a bride. It was only when the lace-clad chest did not rise or fall and the shining glass eyes did not blink that Christine realized they were looking at a marionette - or was it an automata? It moved with the fluidity of a puppet, but Christine could not discern any strings or wires. Perhaps they were very thin.

The magician waltz with his porcelain bride to a frenzied tune played by an invisible piano. The music became more and more manic, the pair more grotesque until finally the magician plunged a dagger into his white-clad bride's heart.

Christine and Raoul both screamed at that, red spread out upon the delicate finery and the bride crumpled to the ground. There was a shocked, horrified murmur from the crowd, then the magician did something strange, something that drained the blood from Christine's face faster even than the sudden brutal slaying of the bride. He produced from within his garb a violin and then he started to play.

The Resurrection of Lazarus. It sounded _so_ like her father's playing that once again she found herself in a fantasy. That the black robes would fall away and the face would reveal itself to be a careworn, bearded face with sparkling blue eyes. With color in those cheeks that she loved to kiss. That she'd kissed one last time three years ago, the cheeks sunken and colorless. As cold and lifeless as the snakes that so startled the crowd.

Christine buried her face in her hands and sobbed, tears soaking her gloves. Raoul's hand was a gentle pressure on the small of her back, his lips dimly felt against her temple, his voice an urgent whisper in her ear, "Do you want to go? We can go."

But mutely, Christine shook her head. She took his proffered handkerchief and dried her eyes. She could not go. Would not go. Three years' grief weighed her down and her foolish heart's hope warred with the miserable certainty in her mind: It sounds like Papa's playing. But Lazarus would not rise.

Not her father, buried by the sea. The bride however, did. The bloody lace was transfigured into a red rose which the magician picked up after he placed his violin down.

 _Play on_ , Christine willed him. _Play on!_

But he did not. Instead he knelt beside the fallen bride, offered her the rose. And sang.

Now the whole audience was moved to tears. For his voice seemed to express every longing they'd ever had, every sorrow they'd ever felt. This time it was Christine who offered her handkerchief to Raoul to take. He daubed at his eyes and ground his gloved knuckle into his teeth. She wondered if he thought of his father. His mother. Or of her. His pretend-bride of the cloak room who he could not have.

Christine wept herself dry. She only listened with appreciation and intrigue. Who _was_ this man? Why was he performing in a circus when by rights he ought to have enraptured the greatest concert halls of Europe?

The bride rose from her faint - her execution? One of her thin arms rose. The magician took his hand. He swept his cloak over them, seeming to end his performance with a kiss, though he sang on...

Then, silence. An empty stage. It seemed the performance was over and he did not take a bow.

The audience sat for a long, long time without making a sound. Then the applause started, low and slow like a heartbeat before it crescendoed into a rapture. It did not stop for ten minutes together.

Monsieur Loyal reappeared with the clowns. The clowns! After such feats of wonder as they had witness, what were clowns to them?

Raoul and Christine turned as one, each holding the others' sodden handkerchief. Then, in unison they said, "We should go."

They were not the only ones. A crowd formed at the box office demanding to see the magician. A dark skinned man in a wool cap, smoking a cigarette shook his head and said, firmly, "The magician does not see his public."

When Christine heard this, she was crushed, utterly. She had to see him again - had to hear him again. But the crowd was being disbursed, ushered toward the doors to the street or back toward the arena with promises of additional artists within who were equally skilled and intriguing.

Christine did not believe it. Neither did Raoul, for he returned with his hat and stick and her wrap. They spoke little, each well caught-up with their thoughts. He took her home, not needing to be told that she did not want a late supper or to stay out dancing.

As Raoul handed her down from the carriage he looked at her, expression serious, maybe even a little worried. "I believe the magician is engaged for the next six weeks. What...what do you think about a matinee tomorrow?"

Christine's heart sang, but, drained body and soul she could only nod and reply faintly, "I'd like that."

Raoul kissed her chastely on the cheek and pressed her hand after she fitted her key in the lock and made to go inside. She took no cold supper, nor even water before she took herself to bed. 

Upon her bedside table, where lay her diary and her Bible, she added yet another treasure. The folded advertisement for Enkidu the Magnificent. 

The magician did not see his public, she recalled as she tossed and turned fitfully, that phantom violin playing over and over in her thoughts. She had only one prayer as she drifted into troubled sleep.

_Please, dear God, let him see me._


	2. Chapter 2

They did attend a second performance - and a third. The magician's act was never dull, for he varied his illusions each time. In place of birds and serpents, he conjured forth a tiger which roared to shake the very seats upon which the audience sat, white-knuckled hands gripping the armrests before disappearing into fine dust. The next night it was a peacock which proved itself to be no more than an elaborate ladies' fan, limp feathers splayed upon the floor when all was said and done.

But regardless of how the act began, it ended the same way. The bridge. The knife. The violin and the voice. By the third performance Raoul no longer wept when he sang, but Christine found herself stifling sobs every time he took up his bow.

And still the magician would see no one. The crowds at the box office were larger by the night, more impatient, more cajoling. Raoul, with his ears red-tipped, returned from pushing his way through the crush and confessed that the green-eyed gatekeeper would not even take a bribe in exchange for an audience. 

"He _said_ ," Raoul huffed, all agitation as he replaced his wallet before they were upon the street, "that the Maestro is 'not a capuchin which will dance for a few centimes to the organ-grinder.' Well, I _say_ , fifty francs is more than a few...I'm so sorry, I know how much you wanted to meet him."

Christine gave him a wan smile and lifted her shoulder slightly in a graceless shrug, as though it was a little matter. She supposed it was; after all, who but herself, Raoul, and Madame Valerius remembered Gustav Daae, the traveling violinist? It had been more than ten years since her father had fiddled on the roadside for coins to earn their meat and bread. It was only that the technique the magician employed was so similar...their paths might have crossed, mightn't they? The magician claimed to hail from Persia, but he was touring Europe now. He might have toured before. Improbable, yes, but _not_ impossible. She didn't think so, anyway.

In any case, they tried and they failed. It seemed silly to go back night after night to be disappointed; anyway, they both did have other concerns. Raoul would be sailing out again in short order and, as ever, Christine had the Opera to occupy her.

Even during her free hours; one of the lead ballerinas, La Sorelli, cornered her as she was coming in for rehearsal to ask if she might act as a chaperone for les petites rats. The little girls were all a-twitter about the fair at the Île de la Cité and were making a nuisance of themselves. The trouble was, they hadn't enough mothers amongst them to form a proper party and wanted more looking after. La Sorelli herself was meant to go along, but she had a last minute invitation to supper that she hated to turn down. 

"You know how it is," she said to Christine with all the casual intimacy of a dear friend or sister, though they'd hardly conversed half a dozen times that Christine could recall. "These noble gentlemen assume the world waits on them and therefore so must we."

Christine blushed at the insinuation, but could not very well summon up any true indignation. Had she not been to supper at Raoul's invitation? Had she not spent three nights out of the last seven in his carriage, on his arm, letting him spend his money on her while she repaid him with companionship and heated touches?

Oh, yes, she loved Raoul and dearly too, as she knew he did her. But might not Sorelli and the Comte love each other? And if they did not, what did it matter? Materially, they were the same.

And so Christine agreed. Let Sorelli keep her supper engagement while she, along with a few brave volunteers from the corps and tired-looking matrons gamely rallied a gaggle of girls, bidding them stay close and keep their hands out of their pockets; it was no good drawing attention to places where money might be hidden. 

They looked like a gaggle of school-girls, with their straw hats and neatly plaited hair. Only school girls would not be out so late, nor would their chaperones be wearing quite so much rouge. 

Little Giry, newly fourteen, who fancied herself quite above the rest of her peers, was quick to link arms with Christine as though they were bosom companions. She prattled on, her conversation consisting of glaring indictments of her fellow ballerinas, peppered liberally with complaints about her mother. Christine heard without attention, attempting to do her duty and keep an eye on the littler girls, but it was no use. They scattered like so much goose down on the breeze as the lights and smells of the fair drew them in. Even little Giry left her side, beckoned by the siren smells frying dough and sugared sweets.

Christine wandered herself, under the pretense of gathering up her charges, but they seemed well enough in small groupings, fingers straying to their pockets as they fussed over what to spend their pin money on; ribbons, a scarf, food, amusements? There were even amusements to ride upon, a rickety carousel, not so fine as the one at the Jardin de Luxembourg, but the nearby vielleur provided music for the riders to enjoy and a few of the smaller girls set upon it with childish delight. 

There were simple stages set up for performers, some occupied, some not. The faces were unfamiliar, but there was a nostalgic comfort in the feel of the place. Many summers had passed for Christine and her father in such establishments, surrounded by such people. She looked around for any musicians she might encourage with a sou or two in their upturned caps, but the only music was from the man accompanying the carousel and he was drowned out by the hustle and bustle of the fairgrounds. 

"Mademoiselle Christine!" 

Little Giry again, lips shining with sugar, black eyes gleaming with delight. 

"Come along, we older girls are having our fortunes told!"

Christine smiled despite herself; she was fully seven years older than little Giry, but there was something endearing about being counted among 'the older girls'. Rarely had she feminine playmates of her own years when she was young. Perhaps for tonight she could be one of the older girls. It certainly seemed to make little Giry happy. 

There was a fire going in a brazier, though the night was quite warm, at the spot where little Giry and her companions were standing about, twittering nervously. Cécile Jammes was seated low to the ground on a little stool before a card table, the firelight making ghostly shadows upon her face. Before her lay a spread of tarot cards and Jammes twisted her fingers in her lap, eyes fixed upon them as though she did not need the fortune-teller to do the divining for her.

Christine looked to the fortune-teller; she assumed that seated opposite Jammes would be a wizened old lady, swathed in scarves and smoking a wicked-smelling pipe. But to her surprise, it was a man, tall and thin, dressed in the oddest assortment of clothes. Fine black leather boots, pinstriped trousers, a heavily embroidered white shirt with no collar, and a heavy-looking coat in an elaborately patterned silk fabric. He wore no hat; his dark hair was cut close to the head, perilously thin at the pate and receding at the crown. There were many rings on his long-sinewy fingers, but the strangest thing of all was the mask upon his face: plain, white, almost alarming in its neutrality. The blaze from the fire made it glow golden and when she first approached, Christine had mistaken it for his own skin. 

Apart from the length of his skinny neck and fingers, the size of his over-large ears (one pierced for a long gold spangle dangled nearly down to his shoulder), Christine could see nothing else; his head was bent over the cards. 

"Damned foolish waste of money," Madame Jammes sighed peevishly, tapping her foot upon the ground. "I can tell you your future: you'll dance, earn a wage, and if you're a good girl you'll wed a decent man. There, that's the end of it."

"Hush, Maman!" Jammes said anxiously. "I want to know what the man has to say."

The mask rose and though the mouth was concealed, Christine could hear the smile in his voice, low, pleasant, and coaxing.

"Love is indeed in the mademoiselle's future," he said - _they_ all said, for Christine had known enough of fairs to know what these sorts of card-readers tended to predict. At first, he too seemed to be just another promise-maker of no great skill. This card stood for uncertainty, a time of change (were not _all_ fifteen-year-old girls changeable and uncertain?), a great love, a great cataclysm...but he said it all with such a bewitching tone that Jammes was on the edge of her seat and even her mother stopped tapping her foot and turned an ear toward him, minute by minute more eager to hear what he had to say.

"Oh, me next, me next!" little Giry insisted, practically shoving Jammes off her seat in her eagerness to hear her future.

The cards were shuffled and laid out - this time the predictions were less vague, but more ludicrous. Little Giry too would find a great love - ah, but what did 'greatness' portend? A heart-shattering passion? Or was this a greatness of mind? Of spirit? Or of _rank_?

"Be bold, my girl," the fortune-teller bade her seriously. "For you might yourself one day be an _empress_!"

"An empress!" little Giry repeated, practically swooning. And then she was up like a shot, presumably gone to tell the rest of the corps about her future position and urging them to start bowing and scraping _now_ that they might become accustomed to paying her what was sure to be her due courtesy.

"An empress?" Christine asked, raising one pale brow coolly. The fortune-teller looked up at her. The light caught his eyes and made them twinkle with an oddly vivid glow. It was familiar, but beyond the eyeholes of the mask she detected weathered skin crinkling into laugh-lines and the familiarity was lost. 

"Well," he admitted, his voice less hypnotic now that he was no longer divining, but the note of good-humor made it a thousand times more charming. "Any woman might be said to be the empress of her husband's heart, eh? And a well-matched pair are as joyful as any king and queen. And what of you, my fair northern beauty? Shall I tell you your future?"

A far-away warning from her father came upon her suddenly. _'Do not have doings with men who claim knowledge of the future, my girl. They're all liars or else devils. Do not give them your money or your time.'_

"I don't believe in relying on cards to chart my future," Christine replied coolly. "I make my own way in this world."

The fortune-teller chuckled. The sound was dark and deep, like the sea at night. Dangerous, but at the same time captivating. It made the fine hairs on the back of her neck stand up. 

"Brava!" he declared, sounding for all the world like a proud father. "That's a spirited girl. Very well, no cards - do you go in for palmistry? I shan't change you; I should very much like to have a look at your hands."

_Go!_ her instincts shouted at her. _He's nothing more than a common confidence man. Go before he picks your pocket or worse!_

But she hesitated. Despite her bravado and her father's warnings, she was tempted. Who would not be? When all around one was chaos, loss, and uncertainty, who would not want to know if the road before them was to be easy or hard?

"Come," the fortune-teller said, his voice sliding from cajoling to commanding. "Sit down. And let me see your hands."

Christine sat. She did not remember choosing to do so. One minute she was standing upon her feet, poised to go. And the next she was sitting before the masked man, his eyes aglow in the firelight. It was only when she sat that she realized how tall he must be; he loomed over her at the table.

"The magician!" she breathed, one hand going to her throat. "You...aren't you the magician playing at the Winter Circus?"

There was a huffing intake of breath, then from behind the mask came a surprised and delighted cackle of laughter. 

"What a clever girl, she is," he murmured, low and quiet. "But then, I suppose you would realize - you've been to see my act, what was it, three times? And your little chap sought me out - fifty francs he wanted to pay me! Do you know, I almost said yes? But I have a reputation to maintain."

"But...but..." Christine did not rise, could not make sense of it. Here she had her chance to ask him, Did you ever know a man named Gustav Daae? But she was so taken aback, so flummoxed that all she managed was, "...but surely you...you must make a better living there than you could here! Telling little girls fairy stories about their future husbands!"

"But little girls love fairy stories about their future husbands," the magician - Enkidu - pointed out, quite reasonably. "And, as my posters say, I aim to amaze and delight! Anyway, those little girls could not afford the price of admission. If I am to amaze and delight, then I must go to them."

"Shock and delight," Christine said. "Your...your advertisments. They say you _shock_ and delight."

"Do they?" he asked and she knew he was smiling again under that mask. "Hmm. I'll have to see the printers about it. Anyway. Your hands, mademoiselle?"

As she sat without quite meaning to, she gave her hands without meaning to. Then she gave a shudder and nearly snatched them back; despite the heat of the blaze beside them, Enkidu's hands were ice-cold. But he held fast, fingers closing around her wrists as he scrutinized her palms; at least his examination seemed thorough. Charlatan or not, he at least feigned seriousness at this endeavor.

"A good, long, life-line," he murmured. "But broken. You do not seem to be in ill-health...ah, a heartbreak. A devastation - two. One when you were very young and another, more recently."

He did not say these things like questions, but Christine nodded, feeling her throat become tight as her eyes burned. She was too near the fire, nothing more; or had she not said she did not live her life by chance?

"What a heart you have!" he exclaimed. "Taken, thoroughly taken, but of course, I knew that. He's quite devoted, you know; your hands don't tell me that, but my eyes do. When most people come to my act, all eyes are on me. But your young man, he looks at you most often."

Enkidu's icy fingers tickled against the dip in her hand. "You have never had great luck with money. But you have not labored, at least not much beyond a little cooking and putting-away. Do you sing?"

Christine sucked in a great breath, but could not even answer in the affirmative before the knowing smile was back in his voice and he answered for her.

"Oh yes, you sing."

Just then Christine took her hands away, laying them flat upon her legs, pressing her palms into her thighs. 

"You...claim to know a good many things, monsieur," she said, raising her eyes and daring to meet his flaming yellow ones. "May...may I ask you something?"

"Of course you may," he said grandly, sitting back and looking for all the world like a crownless king upon his throne. "I won't even ask fifty francs for it."

"Did you," she took another steadying breath. "Did you ever know a man - a musician - named Gustav Daae."

"No."

And there it was. A single syllable, quickly and confidently uttered. Christine's face flushed hot, then she felt cold with the sting of disappointment and embarrassment. An ironic little voice in the back of her mind told her she ought to be grateful Raoul hadn't wasted fifty francs on such a meeting. 

"Thank you," she said, then rose to go. Quick as an asp that cold hand caught her round the wrist and Enkidu - or whoever he was, he claimed to be from Persia, but he spoke French with a distinctly Norman accent - bade her stop.

"Who was Gustav Daae?"

"My father," Christine replied, blinking rapidly as she tugged her wrist from his grasp. Enkidu dropped her hand and looked up at her curiously. His eyes no longer glowed; they now seemed a perfectly ordinary light brown behind the mask. Like honey in a jar. "You...your violin. You play like him. That's all."

"Ah," Enkidu nodded. "Then I am sorry I did not know him; I might have learned a thing or two. But you don't play. Your hands don't bear the mark of it."

Christine shook her head. "He tried to teach me, I hadn't the knack."

"But you sing."

She nodded, then added, "Not very well. Not so well as you! And...not so well as I used to. I was at the Conservatoire, but - "

Enkidu laughed, loud and bitter. "The Conservatoire! Ah, they take vital clay and mould it into perfect little casts, one like the other. No life, no color. Here - "

He took one of little Giry's centimes and held it out to her, glinting between his fingers. "Sing for me. Let me hear if the Conservatoire managed to destroy every trace of your soul, my girl or if there is yet some glimmer of hope."

"Oh, no, I..." Christine looked around for some objection, to see if the ballet rats were seeking her out or one of the mothers was wondering where she'd gotten off to. But their little corner of the fairground was quite deserted. There was a muted roar - it seemed the bear was out and had drawn most of the crowd's attention. 

Enkidu's eyes glittered like the coin in his hand. His words of earlier to little Giry spoke as loudly in her mind as her father's warnings about fortune tellers. _Be bold_.

"Very well," she said, squaring her shoulders and making up her mind before her better judgement could cloud her thoughts. "But...keep your money, monsieur. You...took nothing from me. So I shall take nothing from you."

The coin disappeared in the wink of an eye. 

"Very well," Enkidu inclined his head gravely. "Now. _Sing_."

Christine sang; not something rote from her repertoire nor a sample from the latest production at the Garnier. She sang a folk song, the sort she used to sing when she was a girl traveling with her father in a place very much like this. She sang the way she remembered, when they would draw a crowd with no need for a performing dog or a monkey to drum up interest. People came for the music. And she sang as she did then; to please herself and her father, who loved her and loved music so.

Silence followed when she stopped; a long, heavy silence. A silence of contemplation and decision.

"Oh, no," Enkidu sighed finally. "They have not leeched the color from you - it's a little faded, perhaps, but...hmm."

He tapped the chin of the mask and seemed to have a conversation with himself. "It would be a novel experience...and I do love to collect novel experiences."

Rising to his full height - towering over her, robes swishing around his legs - he tapped her right hand.

"Open your fist," he said. She did so and revealed a plain white business card.

**Erik Mazandarani.** With an address inscribed beneath on the rue du Rivoli which, if Christine was not mistaken, was very close to the Tuileries. 

"My card," he said, giving a short bow like any gentleman might. "I have far too many occupations to list, but do turn it over."

Christine had to squint and hold the card quite close to her face to make out the childish scrawl on the back: **SINGING TEACHER.**

"The choice is yours mademoiselle. I am a busy man," he informed her. "But my mornings are quite open. This coming Tuesday at eight o'clock my calendar is quite blank. Do stop in, if you have a mind to."

Christine stared down at the simple card, the hastily-written occupation. This was all too sudden and strange. She did not know this man after all and had no reason to trust him. But he played so well. And sang like...well, like an angel.

Do not cry my girl! When I am in Heaven, with your dear Mamma, do you know what I'll do? We'll both of us send down an Angel to bless you. You'll know the Angel is near when you hear music. You will always know that I am with you and I love you when you hear music...

"I don't - monseiur!" 

A gust of wind made Christine turn her face away. When it was gone, so too was the magician. The brazier was nothing but hot coals. The table, the stools, and the cards were gone.

But the little white card was still in her hand; slightly bent from where she held it flat.

Erik Mazandarani. A flat in the rue du Rivoli. And an appointment Tuesday morning. Eight o'clock.

Christine pocketed the card and walked back into the noise and crowd, looking for the ballerinas. Perhaps, she thought, as she drew near the girls (watching the bear show, naturally), she might apply to Raoul to accompany her. If it was dangerous, she would have a steady companion at her side. If it was a prank, she would have a sympathetic friend to be her confidante and no one else need know.

And if it was an earnest offer made in good faith...well. If Monsieur Enkidu - or Erik - was as good at telling fortunes as she said, perhaps she would let him have a go with his cards. Just to see if there was any greatness in her future.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for: **Ableism**

As expected, Raoul required only a little coaxing before he agreed to accompany her to the address the magician had given her, but he made bold to voice his concerns.

"Are you certain it was him?" he pressed, squinting down at the childish scrawl on the back of the little white card with a frown. "It might be some sort of fraud, trying to take advantage of vulnerable young women and haul them off on some barge to God-knows-where for God-knows-what."

"Ah, so I'm vulnerable, am I?" Christine asked, folding her arms and looking at Raoul frankly over the bridge of her nose. She'd deigned to wear her spectacles and so hoped her glare was very severe indeed.

It seemed to do the trick. Raoul sighed and pocketed the business card.

"Well, you are not _in_ vulnerable," he conceded, taking up his walking stick and hat. "But you know what I meant."

Indeed she did. A young, unmarried woman with only an aged guardian of no great means for protection was in a situation that most would term vulnerable. Christine only wished that Raoul was not quite so profoundly aware of her situation and they could pretend all was equal between them. They were both of them _very_ good at pretending, after all. It was what brought them together as children and _kept_ them together as adults. 

It was down to him being so newly returned from the sea, Christine decided as she pinned on her hat and put on her gloves. Whereas the sea made those who were land-bound wistful and romantic, it made sailors practical and rational. Still, upon land or sea, there was one thing about Raoul that never varied: she had never been blessed with a firmer friend.

Cocking her finger she bade him bend toward her which he did without question. Then she inclined her neck up and placed a lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth. 

"Thank you," she smiled, rocking back on her heels. "For indulging your not-invulnerable friend."

Raoul picked up her hand, but rather than touching his lips to the back of it, he turned her hand over and unbuttoned her glove. He did not remove it, but instead pressed a warm kiss to the inside of her wrist.

"Of course," he replied, looking at her in a way that never failed to make her legs feel watery and struck a chord right in the center of her being. And yes, he was square of jaw, clear of brow, and handsome as the day was long, but it was his eyes that captivated her most, his expression that did her in. Raoul was so very dear, his eyes so very blue and warm and loving that as much as he liked to indulge her, she wished to indulge him, just as fervently.

But there was not time for that. They must away; she had a singing lesson with a magician to keep. 

Raoul's skepticism increased when he recognized their destination; a rather fashionable suite of apartments, rather than a row of businesses. He loosely grasped her elbow as she made to approach the doorman. 

"A _private_ residence?" he asked. 

"He's a traveling man," she said by way of explanation. "I wouldn't expect him to have a storefront. Anyway, it's early! Nothing really scandalous has ever happened before ten o'clock in the morning, I'm sure."

Despite himself, Raoul laughed. She tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and squeezed his arm reassuringly. It was so good of him to come. Despite his better judgement, despite his ingrained notions of propriety, despite their pretending that he was less than he was and she more. 

In truth, he could offer her little more than himself. Philippe controlled his purse strings, with the exception of Raoul's Naval stipend and that was not enough to keep a young woman in style. Philippe held all sway with the management and was not inclined to advance the career of his younger brother's choice of favorite. It would be better for her to find another patron; Christine was not under any illusions that the small crowd of young men who came with roses or chocolates did so for the beauty of her face and figure or the quality of her voice. Philippe was trying to bait her away, dangling the prospect of a proper patron before her like a carrot before a horse. 

But she would not bite. She was no dumb animal. And she made her choice, as Raoul made his, regardless of his interfering. Made it because, despite Philippe's skepticism, she did love him. And he her. It would not help her career. It would not result in marriage. And yet the feelings were there and true, no matter who doubted them. 

And so singing lessons with a masked magician. It would do no good to explain to Raoul just why she felt compelled to accept, to enter into this strange arrangement. Although he appreciated music, had been moved by the magician - Monsieur Mazandarani's - singing, he did not _feel_ it in his blood as she did. Conversation on the matter would do nothing; it would be like the babbling at the famous Biblical tower; as deeply divided as they were by the circumstances of their births, so too were they divided on this. When it came to matters of music, the two spoke different languages. 

The doorman let them in and directed them to the flat in question. Raoul rapped sharply on the door with his stick, three _rat-tat-tats_. They waited. And waited. Nothing.

There was a strong odor of coffee coming from behind the door; someone was home, but not coming to greet them. Warmth creeped up Christine's neck, a flush of anxiety; had it all been for nothing? Was it merely a joke? Promising her a future as false and nonsensical as telling little Giry that she'd one day marry an Emperor?

True to his good nature, Raoul did not glance down at her with an arch look that said, _'I told you so,'_ without needing to give voice to the sentiment. Instead he lifted his fist and fairly pounded it into the door. _Thump-thump-thump._

"Coming!"

The voice that answered was not that of the magician and Christine's anxiety turned to panic. They were at the wrong place. They were going to have to explain themselves to some poor man and his family, knocking them up early looking for a charlatan with a sweet-voiced violin, glowing eyes, and a lying tongue.

Indeed, her suspicions seemed to be confirmed when the door opened and a sleepy-looking, half-dressed man blinked at them from under a pair of thick black eyebrows, drawn together in confused consternation. He was less tall than Raoul, but his body was well formed (his shirt was falling open at the neck, providing a glimpse of a strong chest smattered over with dark hair). His face, though unshaved and confused, was _exceedingly_ handsome. He looked like a rake from some romantic pulp novel, his dark hair fell over his craggy brow in curls and his eyes, a light green set in brilliant contrast with the bronze flesh of his face, were singularly captivating.

Christine was prepared to stammer an apology to this sleepy, handsome man, but Raoul's mouth dropped open and he said, " _You!_ " Only then did Christine place him; this was the gatekeeper, the smoking man Raoul approached hoping to get an audience with the magician through bribery.

"Oh!" the man exclaimed, glancing behind him furtively. "You've come. Ah. Good-morning, forgive me...I...was not expecting _you_...ah. The mademoiselle so _early_. One - ah - one moment."

Then the door was shut, not quite in their face, there was a thin sliver of light over which a shadow occasionally passed. 

"The magician's manager," Raoul explained, frowning at the almost-closed doorway. "A Monsieur Mazandarani."

"Oh, that's funny," Christine replied. "That was the surname on the card I was given. I wonder if they're...brothers."

But even as Christine speculated, she was sure she was wrong. The magician was exceedingly tall, exceedingly thin, and though she had not seen his face, in no other way did he resemble the man who answered the door. 'Brothers,' indeed. 

Christine glanced up at Raoul to gauge his reaction - this might be a bridge too far even for his indulgent temper - but to her surprise he was smiling. 

"Matelotage, I think is more likely," he replied with gentle irony in his voice. They had no more time to speculate for Monsieur Mazandarani (manager) opened the door revealing an unfurnished flat. It seemed it was in the middle of a bit of construction work; there was an earthy smell in the air, like clay, and a few pieces of furniture had cloths laid over them. 

Monsieur Mazandarani looked altogether more presentable having furnished himself with a collar, tie, and jacket, though he had not had time to run a comb through his hair or shaved. Now he had the air of a reformed rake, albeit a slightly harried one. He directed Raoul to place his hat on the cloak-rack and his stick in an umbrella stand by the door.

"Coffee?" he asked. Christine declined, but Raoul accepted. For a few minutes he played the role of host in quite a genteel manner, broken only when he looked at a half-open door with annoyance and bellowed, "ERIK!" followed by some words in a language Christine had never heard before and could not place.

There was an answering bellow, though the sound was altogether more melodic. The door from which the sound originated opened further and (finally) the magician emerged. 

Although there was no smoke, snakes, or sparks to proceed him, Erik Mazandarani cut just as bizarre a figure as Enkidu the Magnificent. If Monsieur Mazandarani (manager) had appeared to them in a disorder of dress, Erik Mazandarani arrived en dishabille, barefoot, wearing only an ornately patterned robe, loosely belted at the waist and gaping at the neck. His scrawny collarbones and bony chest was revealed almost to the naval and Christine was grateful she'd not taken any coffee; if she had she would have spat it out in shock.

Above all he was still wearing a mask. Not the ornate one from his stage performance, or the dark one he wore at the fair. This was off-white, a shade lighter than the pale skin of his chin - she could _see_ his chin, his thin neck and mouth which was more than the magician revealed in public. And no wonder; far from a theatrical affectation she saw that there was something very much the matter with his mouth; the lips were twisted and asymmetrical, pulling down on one side. The fact that he not only spoke so clearly, but produced such a wonderful sound when he sang was rendered all the more extraordinary, given the obvious disfigurement.

Feeling herself staring, Christine hastily directed her gaze to the magician's pierced ear (empty now, but with her spectacles on she could see the hole for the earring). She therefore missed the magician's oddly-shaped lips quirk into a crooked smile. 

"Ah!" he cried, all affable ease despite the fact that he was probably naked beneath that robe. He held himself as though he was the grande dame of some popular salon. "What a pleasant surprise! I wasn't sure if you were too sensible to come, you see. It appears you're not sensible in the least, how marvelous, how _charming_! And such a specimen, you've brought with you. A bodyguard?"

Erik Mazandarani approached Raoul boldly and extended his hand palm down as if he expected it to be kissed. Raoul did not quite do so, but rather than turning it round for a firm handshake, merely gave a short bow. He seemed altogether more amused and at ease now that he had his coffee and met their strange hosts.

By contrast, Christine was feeling altogether less easy. She had the distinct sense that she was being laughed and was filled with righteous annoyance that she was not in on the joke.

"Well, sensible or not, here I am," she declared, taking refuge in a dignified mien. "You said you'd teach me. Are you going to honor that promise or not?"

"Of course!" he declared grandly - and his robe slipped such that they might have _all_ been embarrassed had he not clutched it in his spider-like hands and tied it neatly shut. "Sit, sit, make yourself comfortable - I shall make myself more presentable. How very _naughty_ , you were, Rahim, not to tell me we had visitors!"

Monsieur Mazandarani - Rahim, apparently - _did_ choke and splutter on his coffee as Erik absented himself back into the bedroom. "Of course I told you we had visitors! I don't know why I should have to, they're _your_ visitors - "

The door shut with a neat click, but a voice emerged (seemingly from the coffee pot itself). _"Where is that famous Persian hospitality?"_

Rahim fixed the coffee pot with a singular expression; Christine was quite sure she'd never seen fondness and exasperation mingled in such fierce competition.

Squaring his shoulders and heaving a great sigh, Rahim looked Raoul and Christine over with his dazzling green eyes and said, "Won't you please sit down? The...maestro will be with you shortly."

Despite his clear amusement, Raoul discreetly touched Christine's hand and cocked his head down at her, indicating that should she give she least sign she wished to quit the place, he'd retrieve his hat and stick.

"Thank you," she smiled at Rahim and took a seat on a chaise that was not covered with a sheet. She folded her hands neatly in her lap and affected the air of a prim music student; she had already been declared not sensible, she wasn't going to be accused of cowardice as well.

Raoul sat beside her, accepting a second cup of coffee when it was offered to him. Rahim bustled around with the coffee pot which issued no further chiding remarks. After a few minutes, Erik arrived.

He still had not shod himself in stockings but instead wore slippers with embroidered velvet uppers. His trousers, covering his impossibly long, thin legs seemed to be silk, an odd choice for daytime and he was wearing another loose robe, this one shorter and tied over another embroidered, collarless shirt like the one she'd seen at the fair. There was a small gold hoop in his ear and he replaced some of the rings he favored. The mask was the same as before. 

He clapped his bejeweled hands together briskly and stared at Christine behind the mask. In the daylight streaming through the windows his eyes seemed properly brown, not gold. 

"Well, Mademoiselle...Daae, was it?" he asked and Christine nodded in confirmation of the name. "Let us sing some scales - ah. Has your bodyguard come for lessons as well, or is he merely window-dressing?"

"Window-dressing," Raoul replied on his own behalf, setting his coffee cup back in its saucer. "Don't mind me, I'm enjoying the...ah. Persian hospitality."

"Ha!" Erik laughed very loudly and not altogether cheerfully. His looks behind the mask turned very dark indeed, but it was not directed at Raoul. Rather at Rahim. "Well. Who wouldn't? Mademoiselle!"

There was a small upright piano under the window and it was behind this instrument that Erik seated himself, hands hovering over the keyboard expectantly. 

"Come along, then," he urged her. "Show me all the benefit the Conservatoire has done you and sing me a scale. Then we'll see if we can't wrest some beauty out of that little automaton throat of yours, eh?"

 _This is not sensible_ , Christine thought to herself as she rose and took her place beside the piano. _Not in the least. But you're no coward. And remember his playing, his singing! He's not half so mad as he pretends to be._

And so, with a cool nod of acceptance, ably ignoring the two other men in the room, Christine squared her shoulders, took a breath, and settled in for the strangest singing lesson of her life.


End file.
